To the High Redoubt (4 page)

“N'yeh, immai,” she said softly.

Arkady shook his head. “You've said those words before. I only wish I knew what they meant.”

There were beggars along the road, a few with criminal brands on their arms and faces. Most of them held out their bowls with pitiful cries, but some were silent, either from apathy or the loss of tongues. Arkady had never gotten used to beggars, not even those who waited around the church in Sól, and these seemed worse to him because they were more miserable and more vicious than those he had seen in Poland. He thought, as he walked, that perhaps the reason he had bought the slave was that he could not permit her to end this way, another discarded and sightless derelict with a bowl and nothing else.

Finally the huts and beggars became more infrequent, and there were fewer travellers jostling toward the market village. Arkady halted the horse and brought the reins over the head. “I'm going to mount, and then I'll pull you up behind me. You'll have to sit on the blanket roll.” He took one of her hands and wrapped it around the stirrup. “Hang on for a bit.” With that, he vaulted into the saddle, keeping his boot out of the stirrup until he leaned down and took her hand. “Come up, then,” he said sharply, as he would have to another soldier.

The slave did not respond quite as he had expected, and he had to haul her onto his mount, trying to settle her while he struggled with his horse. The bay gelding snorted and shook his head at this treatment, sidling and scampering while Arkady attempted to balance his slave on the bedroll behind the saddle. Finally, flushed and breathing deeply, he satisfied himself that the girl would not slip off. “You've…you've got to put your arms around my waist and hang on. We're not going to go much faster than a trot, but for the most part, we'll be walking. The horse has too much of a load with both of us for me to run him very far.”

“Cherut, immai,” she said, the hitch in her voice betraying her nervousness more than her expression.

“Fine. That's fine,” he said a bit inanely. “Here we go, girl.” He loosened his hold on the reins and nudged his mount with his heels. Relieved, the bay gelding broke into a trot, jarring both riders with his abrupt movement. “Hold on!” Arkady barked, turning slightly in order to be sure his slave heard him. “You've got to hold on.”

The slave said nothing; she put her arms around Arkady's waist and clung to him while she bounced on the bay's rump, only partly protected by the bedroll.

The horse soon slowed to a walk, but in the time it took the bay to calm down, Arkady thought he would be deprived of breath by the grip of his slave. He tried to pry her fingers loose but found that he could not. Once he started to shout at her but realized that was a foolish thing to do. She could not understand him no matter how loudly he spoke. He resigned himself to her strangling embrace until the gelding dropped back to a walk. When that finally happened, he felt her arms relax a bit, and he took advantage of this.

“If you don't hang on that way, it's easier for me,” he said very slowly and precisely. “Remember that, will you?”

Behind him, she said something he could not make out, then sank her fingers into his belt, which permitted him to breathe more freely.

“Right. That's better.” He decided that she was a sensible girl, for all her foreignness and her blindness. “You probably don't know what's going on. I wish I could explain it to you.” He would have to find a way to talk with her soon or their travels would be impossibly difficult. He tried to think of a way to start as they made their way across the flat valley toward the first rising hills in the distance.

By evening they had begun to climb, and Arkady was secretly pleased that they had made such good progress. He decided not to press on too far that day and began to search for a place they might be able to camp; in a while he found a small glen a short distance off the road. A stream ran down the far side of the glen, and there was enough shelter to give them some protection during the night.

“This will do it, I think,” Arkady said aloud. “We can lay out the bedroll and make a fire. I've got a pot for cooking, and if I can bring down a rabbit or a bird, that should give us a fairly good meal.” It would be little enough for two, but he decided that he would not suggest that, and not simply because his slave would not understand him. He swung the bay off the road and brought him to a halt in the glen. “This is where we stop tonight, girl.”

“Immai?” she asked, her expression puzzled as he dismounted.

“Give me your hand,” he told her, taking hers before she could become frightened. “I'll help you down. Just lean and I'll catch you.” He tugged gently on her arm, and as she shrieked, he caught her and helped her to the ground. “There. All fine.”

She put her hand to her head, shaking it a little. “Verrek, immai?”

“Sure,” he answered, having no idea what she might have said. “I'm going to gather wood for a fire and get my saddle off the horse. I want you to sit down. Sit down.” He pressed her shoulders and found that she was willing to do it, although she moved stiffly from her hours on horseback. He sighed a little as he untied the bow from his saddle and strung it. “I'll have to do a little hunting. I won't be long.” He was already reaching for the hobbles to secure the bay. Once the hobbles were in place, he unbuckled the girths and tugged the high-fronted, straight-canteled saddle off his gelding's back, putting it on a clear space of ground. “You can lean against this while I'm gone,” he said to his slave.

“Cherut, immai,” she answered, sounding tired. Obligingly she braced her elbows against the saddle and half leaned against it.

“I'm taking one of my swords, but you can have the other,” he said, bending down and taking one of her hands and laying it on the hilt of his shorter sword. “Just don't take out after the horse with it, will you?” He smiled at her as he would have smiled at green troops, but the sight of her eyes froze the expression in a rictus grin. “I won't be long. I'll call out when I come back.”

“N'yeh, immai.” She held the sword more firmly.

“That's right,” he said, not with much certainty. “Hang on to it.” He stepped away from her, fixing an arrow in place as he went. If he had not shot something for their supper by dusk, he would go back and they would have to make do with what he had in his saddlebags. He decided not to waste time searching for arrows that went wide of the mark. He did his best to keep his thoughts on small game instead of the slave he had bought.

To his surprise, by the time he returned with two small rabbits, his slave had found a way to gather wood and lay a fire, and she sat by it patiently, her hand not far from the sword he had left for her.

“You've done well,” he called out as he started across the glen toward her. “Next time I'll leave the flint and steel with you so you can light it as well.”

She had turned toward his footsteps and the sound of his voice. “Selleh, immai,” she called out, lifting one hand in greeting.

Arkady paused to pat his horse and to replace the bay's bridle with a halter. “There you are, boy,” he said to the horse. “You can graze awhile. How's that?”

The bay nuzzled his arm, whickering softly.

“Good boy,” Arkady said, patting the gelding's neck once more before continuing across the glen toward his slave. “I've gutted the rabbits already. They'll cook nicely on a spit, and I'll make some gruel.” He flung down the rabbits not far from his slave and saw her draw back in alarm. “They're just rabbits, and dead ones at that,” he explained as he set about flaying them. The soft pelts were matted with blood by the time he was through, and he tossed them away with some regret, since he knew that when winter came, he might want a few soft rabbit pelts to line his one cloak.

When he finally struck a spark for the fire, his slave was the one who made a nest of dry twigs and leaves for it and blew on it gently until flames appeared. She stayed close to it, and Arkady decided that she must be chilly, for night was coming on and she had fairly light garments—he had not seen such clothes before—and of course had not been given anything heavier.

Once the rabbits were on the spit, Arkady went through the gloom to the stream and filled his single pot with water. Then he tossed some grain into the water and set it against the burning, dry branches.

“Durran jamni, immai,” she said to him while he turned the rabbits on the spit.

“Whatever that means,” he said, shaking his head. “What can have possessed me? You'd think you'd worked some sorcery on me, girl. But what would you want someone like me for? Tell me that.” He chuckled. “I suppose this is as bad as talking to myself.” He had a short, stiff twig and he used it to stir the gruel.

The slave sat very still, then touched his arm so softly that he was not certain she had actually done it. She waited, then put her hand over her breast. “Surata. Surata.”

“What?” He looked at her closely. “Surata?”

“N'yeh, immai,” she said enthusiastically and repeated the gesture. “Surata.” Then she put her hand on his chest. “Immai?”

“Arkady Sól,” he answered, hoping that was what she wanted to know. He pointed his finger at her, letting her hold his hand as he did. “Surata.” He turned his hand back to himself. “Arkady.”

“Arkady,” she said, actually smiling. “Arkady.”

“Right.” He could feel himself grin at this. It was not much, he had to admit, but it was better than nothing. At least his slave had a name and he could call her something other than girl now. “Well, Surata, it's about time we had a bite to eat.”

“N'yeh, Arkady-immai,” she said.

“Not Arkady-immai, just Arkady. Arkady Sól.” He was worried that she might have misunderstood him after all. “Arkady.”

“Arkady-immai,” she corrected him, pointing to herself again. “Surata.” She put her hand on his chest once more. “Arkady-immai,” she said serenely.

“Fine. Arkady-immai, whatever that means,” he grumbled.

Surata began to hum, plainly very happy. She swayed where she sat, her movements so beautiful that she seemed almost to be dancing.

Arkady watched her for a little while, enchanted with what he saw. He realized with sudden irritation that his resolve to treat her with courtesy might be more difficult that he had first assumed. She was blind, but there was a fascination about her that Arkady felt as keenly as he felt the shame of his dishonor. He put his mind on stirring the gruel and turning the spit, so he would not dwell on the opulence of her body.

After a time, she was still again. “Arkady-immai?”

“Here,” he said shortly. “The food's almost ready. You can have gruel now and the rabbit in a bit.”

She nearly burned her hands on the side of the pot; she would have done so if Arkady had not restrained her. She made a strange exclamation, then drew back, blowing on her fingers and trying to keep the tears from her eyes.

Arkady handed her his one spoon. “Use this,” he suggested, pressing it into her hand so that she could feel it. “And give it a moment to cool.”

Surata must have heard how irked he was, because she sighed and gave a contrite smile. “Poehl, immai.”

“Fine. Don't do it again,” he responded, then came very close to burning his own hands as he started to reach for the spit. He swore loudly, then started to laugh.

It was a little time before Surata started to laugh with him, and as she did, he found that his vexation had faded completely.

Chapter 3

By midnight all that remained of the fire were a few glowing embers, and the air was colder. Arkady had pulled his saddle closer to the ashes, doing his best to wrap his blanket around both himself and Surata. He had thought at first that he was tired enough not to be disturbed by her nearness, but after a short, deep sleep, he became aware of the curve of her leg against his and the steady rhythm of her breathing. Still somewhat asleep, he let himself drift with his dreams, hoping that he would be forgiven for the lusts they revealed. In time he became lost in them, letting his imagination take him to the forbidden places where he could revel in Surata's flesh. He would confess these lusts the next time he found a priest to hear him.

“Arkady-immai,” Surata whispered a bit more loudly. “Arkady-immai!” She shoved his arm. “Emtahli.”

Her reality vied with his dream; Arkady hung in the confusion between, not wanting to relinquish the dream for the stern world. He mumbled and tried to turn over.

Surata shook him with force. “Arkady-immai!”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, seeing little of her in the darkness. “Wha…”

“Emtahli!” Her voice was still low, but the urgency in her tone communicated her fear through the foreign word.

The last of his dream faded and he came fully awake. “What is it?”

She poured forth a hurried message while she mimed several men on horseback, riding hard and brandishing weapons. She then pointed to his two swords and his maul, indicating that he should arm himself.

“How close?” he asked, not pausing to wonder how she knew this. He had been a soldier far too long to discount such presentiments. “How many?”

Surata said several words, then held up her hand opened. She pushed him again, clearly hurrying him.

Arkady scrambled to his feet, reaching for his metal-studded leather brigandine, bending to reach the buckles under the arms. It was long enough that he had no need of the corselet, and for that he was grateful. He fumbled for his helmet and his boots, cursing as he shook the boots to dislodge anything that might have crawled into them during the night. He hopped as he pulled each boot on, hearing the tinned steel clink and jangle. “My swords! Where in the name of Saint Michael are my swords. And keep the maul handy—I may need it.”

“N'yeh, Arkady-immai,” Surata said, drawing the cover close around her.